Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  “We need to get that wound wrapped,” Graham stated, willing himself to stop quivering in the aftermath of the harrowing incident. Rides Alone had nearly been mauled. All he had to defend himself was a knife. Yet the Crow warrior seemed unaffected by the traumatic event.

  Graham removed his coat and his long-sleeve, gray Henley shirt, then reached into his bloodstained jeans pocket and pulled out his folding knife. He cut off both sleeves of the shirt.

  “Wait here,” he ordered Rides Alone.

  The warrior stuck his bloody knife into its sheath and casually sat cross-legged beside the bear. He clamped his left hand over his bleeding forearm and used his free hand to slowly stroke the slain grizzly’s fur. It was as if he was paying homage to a worthy opponent—a fellow warrior.

  Graham donned his coat but didn’t bother to button it. He walked briskly to the stream bank and soaked the sleeveless Henley in Pelican Creek.

  Rides Alone was resting his wounded arm on the massive back of the fallen bear when he returned.

  “Let’s take a look,” Graham offered as he sat down beside the wounded warrior.

  The Crow held out his arm.

  As Graham carefully folded the sleeve of the warrior’s tunic above his elbow, he emitted an audible gasp. The skin was slashed several places on the top and bottom of his arm. The bear’s sharp canine teeth had inflicted the most damage. Blood oozed from four deep puncture wounds. Incredibly, neither of the two major arteries in his lower arm had been severed.

  The former Eagle Scout carefully cleaned the lower arm with his soaked shirt, removing fresh blood from the bite wounds and dried blood from the gutted bison. His main concern was eliminating contaminants that might contribute to infection. He used one of the Henley sleeves to tightly wrap the wound, then asked Rides Alone to hold the bandage while he split the second sleeve along most of its length with his knife. Graham wrapped both ends in a spiraling pattern over the first bandage before tying them in a square knot.

  Rides Alone watched in silence while he received first aid and nodded in approval when it was finished.

  “That should stop the bleeding until we get back to camp. Mr. Peale can put on a clean bandage. Of course, Makawee will apply yarrow to promote healing.”

  Rides Alone looked puzzled.

  “You know about yarrow?”

  Graham felt his face flush. He should not have mentioned it. Rides Alone was unaware Makawee had used yarrow leaves to treat his own arm wound. He had to think quickly.

  “Some people claim it helps heal wounds. I assumed Makawee learned about natural medicines during her time with the Blackfeet tribe.”

  Graham held his breath and hoped he had told a believable lie.

  The Crow warrior accepted the explanation. He countered by asking a more challenging question.

  “What is that?” he inquired, pointing to Graham’s chest. Since Graham had removed his shirt, the eagle and bear-claw pendants were clearly visible beneath his unbuttoned coat.

  “This was given to me by a friend.”

  Rides Alone was silent. His expression indicated the brief explanation was not sufficient.

  Graham chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to disclose information about his vision quest, let alone his time-travel experience.

  “My friend is a Crow. He made this necklace after a vision quest. It is a tribute to the bear spirit. He advised me to wear it while I was visiting your land.”

  The Crow warrior reached under Graham’s coat and cradled the bear claw and eagle pendants suspended from the necklace in his hand.

  “Eagle?”

  “I added the eagle to the necklace. It has a special meaning for me,” he answered cryptically.

  “What is Crow friend’s name?”

  “Redfield.”

  “River Crow or Mountain Crow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He could see Rides Alone was trying to place Redfield’s name among those who had a successful vision quest. It must be a small brotherhood.

  Graham deflected any further questions by changing the subject.

  “I’ll get the horse and mules,” he stated while rising to his feet.

  He found the horse and Lindy not far from where he had left them at the creek, but the pack mule had spooked during the commotion and was nowhere to be seen. Before searching the area, Graham trudged to the creek and knelt to wash his hands. His reflection in the water revealed the spattered blood on his face. He scrubbed his face and beard, then cupped his hands in the creek and doused his head with cold water.

  Graham tied the bay roan to a willow bush. He mounted Lindy and found the pack mule downstream fifteen minutes later. The mule’s lead rope had caught between two bushes. He led the stray mule to the location where the horse was tied and rode back to the bison carcass. Rides Alone had finished skinning the animal and was starting to quarter it.

  Graham started to say something about not using his wounded arm because it could start bleeding again but refrained. It was clear Rides Alone was strong-willed.

  The Crow warrior stopped cutting into the hind quarters of the bovine when Graham stepped down from his mule. He walked over to the young white man and extended his arm with a closed fist. Graham extended his hand. The warrior dropped five bear claws into his palm. Rides Alone had separated the claws from the toe bones of the grizzly’s right front paw.

  “You have a bear’s spirit.”

  Graham was touched. He nodded and placed the large bear claws in his jeans pocket. He realized Rides Alone was thanking him for saving his life.

  “Shoot cubs,” Rides Alone said abruptly.

  Graham flinched when he heard these words, not comprehending what the Crow warrior was saying.

  “What?”

  “Shoot cubs.”

  “Why?”

  “Too young. Will not live long. Will starve or be killed by wolves. Or male grizzly.”

  “No,” Graham answered reflexively.

  “You killed mother. Shoot cubs.”

  Graham was incredulous. But Rides Alone stared at Graham and waited for him to act. When he didn’t move, Rides Alone sheathed his knife and picked up the Spencer carbine Graham had tossed on the ground. He held it out to Graham and nodded at the pair of whimpering cubs fifty yards away.

  “Shoot.”

  Graham reluctantly accepted the weapon. He gathered himself and walked slowly toward the innocent targets, getting within ten yards of the mourning cubs before stopping. This was a test he didn’t want to take. He knew Rides Alone was right. The cubs were born this spring and weighed only about thirty pounds each. They were still nursing and had little chance of survival on their own. It was the humane thing to do. But it didn’t make it easy.

  The time traveler cocked the carbine, chambered a round, and shouldered the weapon. The pitiful crying noises from both bears filled his eyes with tears, and he blinked to clear his vision. He could feel Rides Alone watching him.

  Graham’s mind started playing tricks on him. The cub that would be his first victim morphed into Billy. The sorrowful sounds were coming from his little brother, crying out for someone to save him as he thrashed about in the frigid waters where he had fallen through the ice.

  “Help me! Help me!”

  He shook his head. The blurry image of Billy faded away and was replaced by the distressed cub.

  Graham wiped his eyes with the back of his thumb. He sighted in the bear and pulled the trigger.

  Crack!

  The duet of woeful noises became a solo as the first cub fell dead. The bear’s sibling jumped and scurried backward at the sound of the rifle but stopped after a short distance. Graham reloaded. He was able to approach within fifteen yards before killing the second orphaned cub.

  Graham fell to his knees, dropped the carbine, and put his head in his hands. Did Rides Alone think his reaction was cowardly? He didn’t care. Nothing seemed right about what he had just done. Growing up he had shot squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, and
whitetail deer. But never a helpless baby animal. Where was the honor in that?

  * * *

  The fire crackled and popped when Aurelio tossed more wood onto the red embers and sat down beside his friend. Graham had not spoken since he and Rides Alone returned to camp in the afternoon with several large burlap sacks of bison meat. The men had been elated to have fresh meat, which the cook boiled with potatoes and onions to make a flavorful stew.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Aurelio, scooping another spoonful of stew into his mouth.

  “Huh? Oh, I was just marveling at all the large animals we have seen—elk, deer, moose, bighorn sheep, and buffalo.”

  “It would be nice to see a bear. I know there are plenty around.”

  Graham glanced at his camping partner. He was tempted to share the incident at Pelican Creek but refrained.

  Graham and Rides Alone had not spoken after the cubs were killed. They worked together in silence to quarter the bison, placing the largest slabs of meat in burlap sacks on the pack mule. The Crow warrior expertly skinned the sow grizzly, rolled up the hide, and secured it behind the saddle of Graham’s mule.

  Rides Alone had led them back to his wickiup and handed the bear hide to Makawee. Although Graham was glad to see his lover, he was in a melancholy mood after the day’s events. He had flashed a smile at her before they rode toward the main camp to deliver the bison meat.

  Rides Alone had stopped on top of the hill overlooking the camp. He reined his horse around and looked directly at Graham before speaking.

  “You and me connect with bear. No one else.”

  Graham got the message. The bear attack and the subsequent killing of the cubs would remain between the two men. It was not to be shared with anyone.

  This meant he could not ask Albert Peale to look at the Crow warrior’s wound. If the physician saw his arm, it would be obvious the puncture wounds were bite marks. And many questions would follow.

  Graham put on his spare shirt and wandered over to Peale’s camp after dinner to ask for bandages.

  “Why do you need these?” Peale inquired.

  “I scraped my arm today while we were skinning the buffalo. It opened some of the old wounds. I need to wrap it again until it heals,” he lied.

  “Would you like me to look at it?”

  “No, no. It’s not serious. I’ll just have Makawee put some yarrow on it and wrap it for me.”

  Peale grinned as he rummaged through his medical box and pulled out a wad of cloth bandages.

  “Are you sure you didn’t reinjure your arm just so Makawee could treat you again?” he teased as he handed the strips of cloth to his friend.

  Graham forced a thin smile. He was thankful Peale didn’t question his story or insist on inspecting the imaginary wound.

  An hour later, the sun disappeared behind the mountains to the west. Aurelio left their camp to tend to the horses and mules. Graham remained seated by the fire and stared into the yellow flames, revisiting the bear attack and cub killings in his mind. His trance was interrupted when Rides Alone suddenly appeared in the light of the dying fire.

  “Need to talk,” the Crow warrior said.

  “Sure.”

  He motioned for Rides Alone to join him. After he was seated, Graham said, “I have something for you.”

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out the bandages and offered them to Rides Alone.

  “For Makawee. She can rewrap your arm.”

  The Crow warrior accepted the bandages. He tucked them under the belt around his tunic. A moment of awkward silence followed. Graham waited for the Crow to initiate the conversation. Clearly, he had something to say.

  “You fought well. Saved my life. Courage of eagle. Strength of bear. I call you Eagle Bear.”

  Graham was stunned. He recalled the advice of Makawee:

  “Rides Alone respects only fellow warriors - those who have proved themselves when facing an enemy or a danger. These are the only men he trusts to speak with me or be alone with me. If you proved yourself to be a warrior, he would certainly look at you more favorably.”

  He had earned a noble name from the Crow warrior. Perhaps he had proved himself in the eyes of Rides Alone. Eagle Bear was not the name of a baashchiile. It was the name of a warrior.

  Graham saw an opportunity to forge a better relationship with the stepbrother of the woman he loved. He reached into the bottom of his pack and pulled out the briar pipe and leather pouch of kinnikinnick. Redfield had insisted he pack these smoking materials, and now he appreciated the wisdom of this advice.

  Rides Alone watched as Graham packed the pipe with the blend of willow bark and tobacco. He picked up a twig, stuck it into the fire, and lit the pipe. Placing his lips around the stem, he pulled air through the bowl and exhaled the pungent smoke in short bursts. Satisfied the combustible mixture was burning, he offered the pipe to the Crow warrior.

  “To the bear spirit,” Graham said solemnly. He perceived the reverence Rides Alone had for the bear that nearly killed him and hoped their shared experience would strengthen the trust between them.

  The Crow warrior accepted the pipe with a bow of his head. He puffed on the pipe several times, tilting his head backward and blowing the smoke into the night air.

  “To bear spirit. Eagle Bear is welcome at my fire.”

  Rides Alone stood. He handed the pipe to Graham with a nod, then swiftly turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 26

  August 25, 1871

  Waxing gibbous moon: 5 nights until the next full moon

  The pack train had lined up single file behind Lt. Doane on a rock-strewn path that angled down a steep slope to a narrow section of the Yellowstone River. Two hundred yards downstream from the terminus of the trail, the swift-flowing stream widened significantly where the Lamar River merged with the Yellowstone.

  A crude wooden bridge had been constructed over the river where it snaked its way northwest. Flat stones were stacked on both banks to create a solid foundation for lodgepole logs that served as the main support beams. A box crib sat in the middle of the river on a rock platform, providing a center pillar for the two-span bridge. A three-foot-high log railing lined both sides of the bridge, which was just wide enough to accommodate a small wagon.

  A bearded, middle-aged man with jet-black hair and broad shoulders met Doane at the eastern end of the bridge.

  Jack Baronett had emigrated from Scotland and served as a scout for the Confederacy during the Civil War. He ventured to the Montana Territory in 1864 seeking his fortune in gold. When the precious yellow mineral was discovered near Cooke City, Baronett recognized the popularity of the route through northern Wyoming for prospectors coming from points west. He constructed the bridge in the spring of 1871 and charged travelers a toll.

  “Name’s Jack Baronett. Ye can call me Yellowstone Jack,” the tollkeeper said as he extended his hand.

  Baronett’s bridge across Yellowstone River by William H. Jackson

  Gustavus Doane flinched when he heard the name of the man who was operating the toll bridge. Doane had been the leader of the military escort assigned to the Washburn Expedition the previous year. One of the men, Truman Everts, had become separated from their group and was lost for thirty-seven days in the wilderness. When the Washburn party returned to Fort Ellis, a reward was posted for finding Everts. Baronett and another mountaineer rescued the lost man, who was near death when he was found.

  This was a fortunate outcome not only for Everts, but also for Doane. If anyone in the Washburn party had died while he had been overseen the escort, his credibility as a wilderness guide would have been tarnished. Because Evert was saved, Doane was somewhat indebted to Baronett.

  “Lieutenant Gustavus Doane,” the military leader replied, shaking the Scotsman’s hand.

  “Aye. I heard ye were guiding this group. Did ye lose any men this time?”

  The lieutenant clenched his teeth in anger at the sarcastic question and str
uggled to compose himself before answering.

  “The men are quite well. It has been an extraordinarily successful expedition. We’re headed back to Bottler’s Ranch. How much to cross the bridge?”

  “What’s the batch o’ men?”

  Doane turned in his saddle and yelled for James Stevenson to come forward. The survey manager maneuvered his horse past several others on the narrow trail and rode to the front of the line.

  “Mr. Baronett is operating this toll bridge. He wants to know how many men are in our party.”

  “Thirty-one including the two Crow guides,” Stevenson reported.

  “Batch o’ horses?” Baronett queried.

  Stevenson tallied up the pack mules in his head.

  “Twenty-eight horses and fourteen mules.”

  “I know ye be on official business. So ye can cross for fifty cents per horse or mule.” He paused and did the math. “That’ll be twenty-one dollars.”

  “You can send an official invoice to Fort Ellis. Address it to James Stevenson, survey manager of the Hayden Expedition. I will see you get paid.”

  “Nae. I need cash. I canna wait for the government to pay me what’s owed.”

  “Mr. Baronett, I’m sure you can appreciate we don’t carry money with us in this wilderness. I will sign an affidavit right here approving payment, which you can send with the invoice.”

  The tollkeeper scratched the stubble on his chin as he pondered Stevenson’s proposal.

  “Wait here,” he ordered. Baronett walked briskly across the bridge and scrambled up a small ridge on the other side to a small log cabin. A minute later, he emerged holding a paper and pencil and retraced his steps back across the bridge.

  He handed the paper to Stevenson, who inspected the simple document and signed it.

  “Aye. That’ll do. Thank ye,” he said and stepped to the side.

  Doane led the pack train across the bridge. The hooves of the horses and mules clattered on the log deck as they carried their riders across the river. Two miles later, the survey team pitched camp in a broad valley.